The High History of Good Sir Palamedes the Saracen Knight and of his Following of the Questing Beast

TO ALLAN BENNETT
"Bhikkhu Ananda Metteyya"
my good knight comrade in the Quest, I dedicate this
imperfect account of it, in some small recognition of
his suggestion of its form.
MANDALAY, November 1905

ARGUMENT
i. Sir Palamede, the Saracen knight, riding on the shore of Syria, findeth his father's corpse, around which an albatross circleth. He approveth the vengeance of his peers.
ii. On the shore of Arabia he findeth his mother in the embrace of a loathly negro beneath blue pavilions. Her he slayeth, and burneth all that encampment.
iii. Sir Palamede is besieged in his castle by Severn mouth, and his wife and son are slain.
iv. Hearing that his fall is to be but the prelude to an attack on Camelot, he maketh a desperate night sortie, and will traverse the wilds of Wales.
v. At the end of his resources among the Welsh mountains, he is compelled to put to death his only remaining child. By this sacrifice he saves the world of chivalry.
vi. He having become in holy hermit, a certain dwarf, splendidly clothed, cometh to Arthur's court, bearing tidings of a Questing Beast. The knights fail to lift him, this being the test of worthiness.
vii. Lancelot findeth him upon Scawfell, clothed in his white beard. He returneth, and, touching the dwarf but with his finger, hurleth him to the heaven.
viii. Sir Pa1amede, riding forth on the quest, seeth a Druid worship the sun upon Stonehenge. He rideth eastward, and findeth the sun setting in the west. Furious he taketh a Viking ship, and by sword and whip fareth seaward.
ix. Coming to India, he leameth that It glittereth. Vainly fighting the waves, the leaves, and the snows, he is swept in the Himalayas by an avalanche into a valley where dwell certain ascetics, who pelt him with their eyeballs.
x. Seeking It as Majesty, he chaseth an elephant in the Indian jungle. The elephant escapeth; but he, led to Trichinopoli by an Indian lad, seeth an elephant forced to dance ungainly before the Mahalingam.
xi. A Scythian sage declareth that It transcendeth Reason. Therefore Sir Palamede unreasonably decapitateth him.
xii. An ancient hag prateth of It as Evangelical. Her he heweth in pieces.
xiii. At Naples he thinketh of the Beast as author of Evil, because Free of Will. The Beast, starting up, is slain by him with a poisoned arrow; but at the moment of Its death It is reborn from the knight's own belly.
xiv. At Rome he meeteth a red robber in a Hat, who speaketh nobly of It as of a king-dove-lamb. He chaseth and slayeth it; it proveth to be but a child's toy.
xv. In a Tuscan grove he findeth, from the antics of a Satyr, that the Gods still dwell with men. Mistaking orgasm for ecstasy, he is found ridiculous.
xvi. Baiting for It with gilded corn in a moonlit vale of Spain, he findeth the bait stolen by vermin.
xvii. In Crete a metaphysician weaveth a labyrinth. Sir Palamede compelleth him to pursue the quarry in this same fashion. Running like hippogriffs, they plunge over the precipice; and the hermit, dead, appears but a mangy ass. Sir Palamede, sore wounded, is born by fishers to an hut.
xviii. Sir Palamede noteth the swiftness of the Beast. He therefore climbeth many mountains of the Alps. Yet can he not catch It; It outrunneth him easily, and at last, stumbling, he falleth.
xix. Among the dunes of Brittany he findeth a witch dancing and conjuring, until she disappeareth in a blaze of light. He then learneth music, from a vile girl, until he is as skilful as Orpheus. In Paris he playeth in a public place. The people, at first throwing him coins, soon desert him to follow a foolish Egyptian wizard. No Beast cometh to his call.
xx. He argueth out that there can be but one Beast. Following single tracks, he at length findeth the quarry, but on pursuit It eludeth him by multiplying itself. This on the wide plains of France.
xxi. He gathereth an army sufficient to chase the whole herd. In England's midst they rush upon them; but the herd join together, leading on the knights, who at length rush together into a mêlée, wherein all but Sir Palamede are slain, while the Beast, as ever, standeth aloof, laughing.
xxii. He argueth Its existence from design of the Cosmos, noting that Its tracks form a geometrical figure. But seeth that this depends upon his sense of geometry; and is therefore no proof. Meditating upon this likeness to himself—Its subjectivity, in short—he seeth It in the Blue Lake. Thither plunging, all is shattered.
xxiii. Seeking It in shrines he findeth but a money-box; while they that helped him (as they said) in his search, but robbed him.
xxiv. Arguing Its obscurity, he seeketh It within the bowels of Etna, cutting off all avenues of sense. His own thoughts pursue him into madness.
xxv. Upon the Pacific Ocean, he, thinking that It is not-Self, throweth himself into the sea. But the Beast setteth him ashore.
xxvi. Rowed by Kanakas to Japan, he praiseth the stability of Fuji-Yama. But, an earthquake arising, the pilgrims are swallowed up.
xxvii. Upon the Yang-tze-kiang he contemplateth immortal change. Yet, perceiving that the changes themselves constitute stability, he is again baulked, and biddeth his men bear him to Egypt.
xxviii. In an Egyptian temple he hath performed the Bloody Sacrifice, and cursed Osiris. Himself suffering that curse, he is still far from the Attainment.
xxix. In the land of Egypt he performeth many miracles. But from the statue of Memnon issueth the questing, and he is recalled from that illusion.
xxx. Upon the plains of Chaldea he descendeth into the bowels of the earth, where he beholdeth the Visible Image of the Soul of Nature for the Beast. Yet Earth belcheth him forth.
xxi. In a slum city he converseth with a Rationalist. Learning nothing, nor even hearing the Beast, he goeth forth to cleanse himself.
xxxii. Seeking to imitate the Beast, he goeth on all-fours, questing horribly. The townsmen cage him for a lunatic. Nor can he imitate the elusiveness of the Beast. Yet at one note of that questing the prison is shattered, and sir Palamede rusheth forth free.
xxxiii. Sir Palamede hath gone to the shores of the Middle Sea to restore his health. There he practiseth devotion to the Beast, and becometh maudlin and sentimental. His knaves mocking him, he beateth one sore; from whose belly issueth the questing.
xxxiv. Being retired into an hermitage in Fenland, he traverseth space upon the back of an eagle. He knoweth all things—save only It. And incontinent beseecheth the agle to set him down again.
xxxv. He lectureth upon metaphysics—for he is now totally insane—to many learned monks of Cantabrig. They applaud him and detain him, though he hath heard the questing and would away. But so feeble is he that he fleeth by night.
xxxvi. It hath often happened to Sir Palamede that he is haunted by a shadow, the which he may not recognise. But at last, in a sunlit wood, this is discovered to be a certain hunchback, who doubteth whether there be at all any Beast or any quest, or if he whole life of Sir Palamede be not a vain illusion. Him, without seeking to conquer with words, he slayeth incontinent.
xxxvii. In a cave by the sea, feeding on limpets and roots, Sir Palamede abideth, sick unto death. Himseemeth the Beast questeth within his own bowels: he is the Beast. Standing up, that he may enjoy the reward, he findeth another answer to the riddle. Yet abideth in the quest.
xxxviii. Sir Palamede is confronted by a stranger knight, whose arms are identical with his (Sir Palamede's) own, as also his features. This knight mocketh Sir Palamede for an impudent pretender, and impersonator of the chosen knight. Sir Palamede in all humility alloweth that there is no proof possible; and offereth ordeal of battle, in which the stranger is slain. Sir Palamede heweth him into the smallest dust without pity.
xxxix. In a green valley he obtaineth the vision of Pan. Thereby he regaineth all that he had expended of strength and youth; is gladdened thereat, for he now devoteth gain his life to the quest; yet more utterly cast down than ever, for that this supreme ision is not the Beast.
xl. Upon the loftiest summit of a great mountain he perceiveth Naught. Even this is, however, not the Beast.
xli. Returning to Camelot to announce his failure, he maketh entrance into the King's hall, whence he started out upon the quest. The Beast cometh nestling to him. All the knights attain the quest. The voice of Christ is heard: "Well done." He sayeth that each failure is a step in the Path. The poet prayeth success therein for himself and his readers.

I
SIR PALAMEDE the Saracen
Rode by the marge of many a sea:
He had slain a thousand evil men
And set a thousand ladies free.

Armed to the teeth, the glittering knight
Galloped along the sounding shore,
His silver arms one lake of light,
Their clash one symphony of war.

How still the blue enamoured sea
Lay in the blaze of Syria's noon!
The eternal roll eternally
Beat out its monotonic tune.

Sir Palamede the Saracen
A dreadful vision here espied,
A sight abhorred of gods, and men,
Between the limits of the tide.

The dead man's tongue was torn away;
The dead man's throat was slit across;
There flapped upon the putrid prey
A carrion, screaming albatross.

So halted he his horse, and bent
To catch remembrance from the eyes
That stared to God, whose ardour sent
His radiance from the ruthless skies.

Then like a statue still he sate;
Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred;
While round them flapped insatiate
The fell, abominable bird.

But coldest horror drave the light
From knightly eyes. How pale thy bloom,
Thy blood, O brow whereon the night
Sits like a serpent on a tomb!

For Palamede those eyes beheld
The iron image of his own;
On those dead brows a fate he spelled
To strike a Gorgon into stone.

He knew his father. Still he sate,
Nor quivered nerve, nor muscle stirred;
While round them flapped insatiate
The fell, abominable bird.

The knight approves the justice done,
And pays with that his rowels' debt;
While yet the forehead of the son
Stands beaded with an icy sweat.

Is whelmed by God, yet from his breast
Spits up the flame, and ashes grey.
Hereby Sir Palamede his quest
Pursues withouten let or rest.

Seeing the evil mountain be,
Remembering all his evil years,
He knows the Questing Beast runs free—
Author of Evil, then, is he!

Whereat immediate resounds
The noise he hath sought so long: appears
There quest a thirty couple hounds
Within its belly as it bounds.

Lifting his eyes, he sees at last
The beast he seeks: 'tis like an hart.
Ever it courseth far and fast.
Sir Palamede is sore aghast,

But plucking up his will, doth launch
A mighty poison-dippèd dart:
It fareth ever sure and staunch,
And smiteth him upon the haunch.

Then as Sir Palamede overhauls
The stricken quarry, slack it droops,
Staggers, and final down it falls.
Triumph! Gape wide, ye golden walls!

Lift up your everlasting doors,
O gates of Camelot! See, he swoops
Down on the prey! The life-blood pours:
The poison works: the breath implores

Its livelong debt from heart and brain.
Alas! poor stag, thy day is done!
The gallant lungs gasp loud in vain:
Thy life is spilt upon the plain.

Sir Palamede is stricken numb
As one who, gazing on the sun,
Sees blackness gather. Blank and dumb,
The good knight sees a thin breath come

Out of his proper mouth, and dart
Over the plain: he seeth it
Sure by some black magician art
Shape ever closer like an hart:

While such a questing there resounds
As God had loosed the very Pit,
Or as a thirty couple hounds
Are in its belly as it bounds!

Full sick at heart, I ween, was then
The loyal knight, the weak of wit,
The butt of lewd and puny men,
Sir Palamede the Saracen.

XIV
NORTHWARD the good knight gallops fast,
Resolved to seek his foe at home,
When rose that Vision of the past,
The royal battlements of Rome,
A ruined city, and a dome.

There in the broken Forum sat
A red-robed robber in a Hat.
"Whither away, Sir Knight, so fey?'
"Priest, for the dove on Ararat
I could not, nor I will not, stay!"

"I know thy quest. Seek on in vain
A golden hart with silver horns!
Life springeth out of divers pains.
What crown the King of Kings adorns?
A crown of gems? A crown of thorns!

The Questing Beast is like a king
In face, and hath a pigeon's wing
And claw; its body is one fleece
Of bloody white, a lamb's in spring.
Enough. Sir Knight, I give thee peace."

The knight spurs on, and soon espies
A monster coursing on the plain.
He hears the horrid questing rise
And thunder in his weary brain.
This time, to slay it or be slain!

Too easy task! The charger gains
Stride after stride with little pains
Upon the lumbering, flapping thing.
He stabs the lamb, and splits the brains
Of that majestic-seeming king.

He clips the wing and pares the claw—
What turns to laughter all his joy,
To wondering ribaldry his awe?
The beast's a mere mechanic toy,
Fit to amuse an idle boy!

XV
SIR PALAMEDE the Saracen
Hath come to an umbrageous land
Where nymphs abide, and Pagan men.
The Gods are nigh, say they, at hand.
How warm a throb from Venus stirs
The pulses of her worshippers!

Nor shall the Tuscan God be found
Reluctant from the altar-stone:
His perfume shall delight the ground,
His presence to his folk be known
In darkling grove and glimmering shrine—
O ply the kiss and pour the wine!

Sir Palamede is fairly come
Into a place of glowing bowers,
Where all the Voice of Time is dumb:
Before an altar crowned with flowers
He seeth a satyr fondly dote
And languish on a swan-soft goat.

Then he in mid-caress desires
The ear of strong Sir Palamede.
"We burn," quoth he, "no futile fires,
Nor play upon an idle reed,
Nor penance vain, nor fatuous prayers—
The Gods are ours, and we are theirs."

Sir Palamedes plucks the pipe
The satyr tends, and blows a trill
So, soft and warm, so red and ripe,
That echo answers from the hill
In eager and voluptuous strain,
While grows upon the sounding plain

A gallop, and a questing turned
To one profound melodious bay.
Sir Palamede with pleasure burned,
And bowed him to the idol grey
That on the altar sneered and leered
With loose red lips behind his beard.

Sir Palamedes and the Beast
Are woven in a web of gold
Until the gilding of the East
Burns on the wanton-smiling wold:
And still Sir Palamede believed
His holy quest to be achieved!

But now the dawn from glowing gates
Floods all the land: with snarling lip
The Beast stands off and cachinnates
That stings the good knight like a whip,
As suddenly Hell's own disgust
Eats up the joy he had of lust.

The brutal glee his folly took
For holy joy breaks down his brain.
Off bolts the Beast: the earth is shook
As out a questing roars again,
As if a thirty couple hounds
Are in its belly as it bounds!

The peasants gather to deride
The knight: creation joins in mirth.
Ashamed and scorned on every side,
There gallops, hateful to the earth,
The laughing-stock of beasts and men,
Sir Palamede the Saracen.

XVI
WHERE shafts of moonlight splash the vale,
Beside a stream there sits and strains
Sir Palamede, with passion pale,

And haggard from his broken brains.
Yet eagerly he watches still
A mossy mound where dainty grains

Of gilded corn their beauty spill
To tempt the quarry to the range
Of Palamede his archer skill.

All night he sits, with ardour strange
And hope new-fledged. A gambler born
Aye thinks the luck one day must change,

Though sense and skill he laughs to scorn.
So now there rush a thousand rats
In sable silence on the corn.

They sport their square or shovel hats,
A squeaking, tooth-bare brotherhood,
Innumerable as summer gnats

Who boasts him master of the fire
To draw down lightning, and invoke
The gods upon a sandal pyre,

And bring up devils in the smoke.
Sir Palamede is all alone,
Wrapped in his misery like a cloak,

Despairing now to charm the Unknown.
So arms and horse he takes again.
Sir Palamede hath overthrown

The jesters. Now the country men,
Stupidly staring, see at noon
Sir Palamede the Saracen

A-riding like an harvest moon
In silver arms, with glittering lance,
With plumed helm, and wingèd shoon,
Athwart the admiring land of France.

XX
SIR PALAMEDE hath reasoned out
Beyond the shadow of a doubt
That this his Questing Beast is one;
For were it Beasts, he must suppose
An earlier Beast to father those.
So all the tracks of herds that run

Into the forest he discards,
And only turns his dark regards
On single prints, on marks unique.
Sir Palamede doth now attain
Unto a wide and grassy plain,
Whereon he spies the thing to seek.

Thereat he putteth spur to horse
And runneth him a random course,
The Beast a-questing aye before.
But praise to good Sir Palamede!
'Hath gotten him a fairy steed
Alike for venery and for war,

So that in little drawing near
The quarry, lifteth up his spear
To run him of his malice through.
With that the Beast hopes no escape,
Dissolveth all his lordly shape,
Splitteth him sudden into two.

Sir Palamede in fury runs
Unto the nearer beast, that shuns
The shock, and splits, and splits again,
Until the baffled warrior sees
A myriad myriad swarms of these
A-questing over all the plain.

The good knight reins his charger in.
"Now, by the faith of Paladin!
The subtle quest at last I ken."
Rides off to Camelot to plight
The faith of many a noble knight,
Sir Palamede the Saracen.

XXI
NOW doth Sir Palamede advance
The lord of many a sword and lance.
In merrie England's summer sun
Their shields and arms a-glittering glance

And laugh upon the mossy mead.
Now winds the horn of Palamede,
As far upon the horizon
He spies the Questing Beast a-feed.

With loyal craft and honest guile
They spread their ranks for many a mile.
For when the Beast hath heard the horn
He practiseth his ancient wile,

And many a myriad beasts invade
The stillness of that armèd glade.
Now every knight to rest hath borne
His lance, and given the accolade,

And run upon a beast: but they
Slip from the fatal point away
And course about, confusing all
That gallant concourse all the day,

Leading them ever to a vale
With hugeous cry and monster wail.
Then suddenly their voices fall,
And in the park's resounding pale

Only the clamour of the chase
Is heard: oh! to the centre race
The unsuspicious knights: but he
The Questing Beast his former face

Of unity resumes: the course
Of warriors shocks with man and horse.
In mutual madness swift to see
They shatter with unbridled force

One on another: down they go
Swift in stupendous overthrow.
Out sword! out lance! Cuirass and helm
Splinter beneath the knightly blow.

They storm, they charge, they hack and hew,
They rush and wheel the press athrough.
The weight, the murder, overwhelm
One, two, and all. Nor silence knew

His empire till Sir Palamede
(The last) upon his fairy steed
Struck down his brother; then at once
Fell silence on the bloody mead,

Until the questing rose again.
For there, on that ensanguine plain
Standeth a-laughing at the dunce
The single Beast they had not slain.

There, with his friends and followers dead,
His brother smitten through the head,
Himself sore wounded in the thigh,
Weepeth upon the deed of dread,

Alone among his murdered men,
The champion fool, as fools were then,
Utterly broken, like to die,
Sir Palamede the Saracen.

Is there no medicine but death
That shall avail me in my place;
That I may know the Beauteous Breath
And taste the Goodly Gift of Grace?

Keep Thou yet firm this trembling leaf
My soul, dear God Who died for men;
Yea! for that sinner-soul the chief,
Sir Palamede the Saracen!"

XXX
STARRED is the blackness of the sky;
Wide is the sweep of the cold plain
Where good Sir Palamede doth lie,
Keen on the Beast-slot once again.

All day he rode; all night he lay
With eyes wide open to the stars,
Seeking in many a secret way
The key to unlock his prison bars.

Beneath him, hark! the marvel sounds!
The Beast that questeth horribly.
As if a thirty couple hounds
Are in his belly questeth he.

Beneath him? Heareth he aright?
He leaps to's feet—a wonder shews:
Steep dips a stairway from the light
To what obscurity God knows.

Still never a tremor shakes his soul
(God praise thee, knight of adamant!);
He plunges to that gruesome goal
Firm as an old bull-elephant!

The broad stair winds; he follows it;
Dark is the way; the air is blind;
Black, black the blackness of the pit,
The light long blotted out behind!

His sword sweeps out; his keen glance peers
For some shape glimmering through the gloom:
Naught, naught in all that void appears;
More still, more silent than the tomb!

Yet now the good knight is aware
Of some black force, of some dread throne,
Waiting beneath that awful stair,
Beneath that pit of slippery stone.

Yea! though he sees not anything,
Nor hears, his subtle sense is 'ware
That, lackeyed by the devil-king,
The Beast—the Questing Beast—is there!

So though his heart beats close with fear,
Though horror grips his throat, he goes,
Goes on to meet it, spear to spear,
As good knight should, to face his foes.

Nay! but the end is come. Black earth
Belches that peerless Paladin
Up from her gulphs—untimely birth!
—Her horror could not hold him in!

White as a corpse; the hero hails
The dawn, that night of fear still shaking
His body. All death's doubt assails
Him. Was it sleep or was it waking?

"By God, I care not, I!" (quod he).
"Or wake or sleep, or live or dead,
I will pursue this mystery.
So help me Grace of Godlihead!"

Ay! with thy wasted limbs pursue
That subtle Beast home to his den!
Who knows but thou mayst win athrough,
Sir Palamede the Saracen?

XXXI
FROM God's sweet air Sir Palamede
Hath come unto a demon bog,
A city where but rats may breed

In sewer-stench and fetid fog.
Within its heart pale phantoms crawl.
Breathless with foolish haste they jog

And jostle, all for naught! They scrawl
Vain things all night that they disown
Ere day. They call and bawl and squall

Hoarse cries; they moan, they groan. A stone
Hath better sense! And these among
A cabbage-headed god they own,

With wandering eye and jabbering tongue.
He, rotting in that grimy sewer
And charnel-house of death and dung,

Shrieks: "How the air is sweet and pure !
Give me the entrails of a frog
And I will teach thee! Lo! the lure

Of light! How lucent is the fog!
How noble is my cabbage-head!
How sweetly fragrant is the bog!"

"God's wounds!" (Sir Palamedes said),
"What have I done to earn this portion?
Must I, the clean knight born and bred,

Sup with this filthy toad-abortion?"
Nathless he stayed with him awhile,
Lest by disdain his mental torsion

Slip back, or miss the serene smile
Should crown his quest; for (as one saith)
The unknown may lurk within the vile.

So he who sought the Beauteous Breath,
Desired the Goodly Gift of Grace,
Went equal into life and death.

But oh! the foulness of his face!
Not here was anything of worth;
He turned his back upon the place,

Sought the blue sky and the green earth,
Ay! and the lustral sea to cleanse
That filth that stank about his girth,

The sores and scabs, the warts and wens,
The nameless vermin he had gathered
In those insufferable dens,

The foul diseases he had fathered.
So now the quest slips from his brain:
"First (Christ!) let me be clean again!"

XXXII
"HA!" cries the knight, "may patient toil
Of brain dissolve this cruel coil!
In Afric they that chase the ostrich
Clothe them with feathers, subtly foil

Its vigilance, come close, then dart
Its death upon it. Brave my heart!
Do thus!" And so the knight disguises
Himself, on hands and knees doth start

His hunt, goes questing up and down.
So in the fields the peasant clown
Flies, shrieking, from that dreadful figure.
But when he came to any town

They caged him for a lunatic.
Quod he: "Would God I had the trick!
The beast escaped from my devices;
I will the same. The bars are thick,

But I am strong." He wrenched in vain;
Then—what is this? What wild, sharp strain
Smites on the air? The prison smashes.
Hark! 'tis the Questing Beast again!

Then as he rushes forth the note
Roars from that Beast's malignant throat
With laughter, laughter, laughter, laughter!
The wits of Palamedes float

In ecstasy of shame and rage.
"O Thou!" exclaims the baffled sage;
"How should I match Thee? Yet, I will so,
Though Doomisday devour the Age.

Weeping, and beating on his breast,
Gnashing his teeth, he still confessed
The might of the dread oath that bound him:
He would not yet give up the quest.

"Nay! while I am," quoth he, "though Hell
Engulph me, though God mock me well,
I follow as I sware; I follow,
Though it be unattainable.

Nay, more! Because I may not win,
Is't worth man's work to enter in!"
The Infinite with mighty passion
Hath caught my spirit in a gin.

Come! since I may not imitate
The Beast, at least I work and wait.
We shall discover soon or late
Which is the master—I or Fate!"

XXXIII
SIR PALAMEDE the Saracen
Hath passed unto the tideless sea,
That the keen whisper of the wind
May bring him that which never men
Knew—on the quest, the quest, rides he!
So long to seek, so far to find!

So weary was the knight; his limbs
Were slack as new-slain dove's; his knees
No longer gripped the charger rude.
Listless, he aches; his purpose swims
Exhausted in the oily seas
Of laxity and lassitude.

The soul subsides; its serious motion
Still throbs; by habit, not by will.
And all his lust to win the quest
Is but a passive-mild devotion.
(Ay! soon the blood shall run right chill
—And is not death the Lord of Rest?)

There as he basks upon the cliff
He yearns toward the Beast; his eyes
Are moist with love; his lips are fain
To breathe fond prayers; and (marry!) if
Man's soul were measured by his sighs
He need not linger to attain.

Nay! while the Beast squats there, above
Him, smiling on him; as he vows
Wonderful deeds and fruitless flowers,
He grows so maudlin in his love
That even the knaves of his own house
Mock at him in their merry hours.

"God's death!" raged Palamede, not wroth
But irritated, "laugh ye so?
Am I a jape for scullions?"
His curse came in a flaky froth.
He seized a club, with blow on blow
Breaking the knave's unreverent sconce!

"Thou mock the Questing Beast I chase,
The Questing Beast I love? 'Od's wounds!"
Then sudden from the slave there brake
A cachinnation scant of grace,
As if a thirty couple hounds
Were in his belly! Knight, awake!

Ah! well he woke! His love and scorn
Grapple in death-throe at his throat.
"Lead me away" (quoth he), "my men!
Woe, woe is me was ever born
So blind a bat, so gross a goat,
As Palamede the Saracen!"

XXXIV
SIR PALAMEDE the Saracen
Hath hid him in an hermit's cell
Upon an island in the fen

Of that lone land where Druids dwell.
There came an eagle from the height
And bade him mount. From dale to dell

They sank and soared. Last to the light
Of the great sun himself they flew,
Piercing the borders of the night,

Passing the irremeable blue.
Far into space beyond the stars
At last they came. And there he knew

All the blind reasonable bars
Broken, and all the emotions stilled,
And all the stains and all the scars

Left him; so like a child he thrilled
With utmost knowledge; all his soul
With perfect sense and sight fulfilled,

Touched the extreme, the giant goal!
Yea! all things in that hour transcended,
All power in his sublime control,

All felt, all thought, all comprehended—
"How is it, then, the quest" (he saith)
"Is not—at last!—achieved and ended?

XXXIX
GREEN and Grecian is the valley,
Shepherd lads and shepherd lasses
Dancing in a ring
Merrily and musically.
How their happiness surpasses
The mere thrill of spring!

"Come" (they cry), "Sir Knight, put by
All that weight of shining armour!
Here's a posy, here's a garland, here's a chain of daisies!
Here's a charmer! There's a charmer!
Praise the God that crazes men, the God that raises
All our lives to ecstasy!"

Sir Palamedes was too wise
To mock their gentle wooing;
He smiles into their sparkling eyes
While they his armour are undoing.
"For who" (quoth he) "may say that this
Is not the mystery I miss?"

Soon he is gathered in the dance,
And smothered in the flowers.
A boy's laugh and a maiden's glance
Are sweet as paramours!
Stay! is there naught some wanton wight
May do to excite the glamoured knight?

Yea! the song takes a sea-wild swell ;
The dance moves in a mystic web;
Strange lights abound and terrible;
The life that flowed is out at ebb.

The lights are gone; the night is come;
The lads and lasses sink, awaiting
Some climax—oh, how tense and dumb
The expectant hush intoxicating!
Hush! the heart's beat! Across the moor
Some dreadful god rides fast, be sure!

The listening Palamede bites through
His thin white lips—what hoofs are those?
Are they the Quest? How still and blue
The sky is! Hush—God knows—God knows!

Then on a sudden in the midst of them
Is a swart god, from hoof to girdle a goat,
Upon his brow the twelve-star diadem
And the King's Collar fastened on his throat.

Thrill upon thrill courseth through Palamede.
Life, life, pure life is bubbling in his blood.
All youth comes back, all strength, all joy indeed
Flaming within that throbbing spirit-flood!
Yet was his heart immeasurably sad,
For that no questing in his ear he had.

Nay! he saw all. He saw the Curse
That wrapped in ruin the World primæval.
He saw the unborn Universe,
And all its gods coeval.
He saw, and was, all things at once
In Him that is; he was the stars,
The moons, the meteors, the suns,
All in one net of triune bars;
Inextricably one, inevitably one,
Immeasurable, immutable, immense
Beyond all the wonder that his soul had won
By sense, in spite of sense, and beyond sense.
"Praise God!" quoth Palamede, "by this
I attain the uttermost of bliss. . . .

God's wounds! but that I never sought.
The Questing Beast I sware to attain
And all this miracle is naught.
Off on my travels once again!

I keep my youth regained to foil
Old Time that took me in his toil.
I keep my strength regained to chase
The Beast that mocks me now as then
Dear Christ! I pray Thee of Thy grace
Take pity on the forlorn case
Of Palamede the Saracen!"

XL
SIR PALAMEDE the Saracen
Hath seen the All; his mind is set
To pass beyond that great Amen.

Far hath he wandered; still to fret
His soul against that Soul. He breaches
The rhododendron forest-net,

His body bloody with its leeches.
Sternly he travelleth the crest
Of a great mountain, far that reaches

Toward the King-snows; the rains molest
The knight, white wastes updriven of wind
In sheets, in torrents, fiend-possessed,

Up from the steaming plains of Ind.
They cut his flesh, they chill his bones:
Yet he feels naught; his mind is pinned

To that one point where all the thrones
Join to one lion-head of rock,
Towering above all crests and cones

That crouch like jackals. Stress and shock
Move Palamede no more. Like Fate
He moves with silent speed. They flock,

The Gods, to watch him. Now abate
His pulses; he threads through the vale,
And turns him to the mighty gate,

The glacier. Oh, the flowers that scale
Those sun-kissed heights! The snows that crown
The quartz ravines! The clouds that veil

The awful slopes! Dear God! look down
And see this petty man move on,
Relentless as Thine own renown,